Iced Tea
by Twilight Joltik
Summary: "Eyes half open, Emil gazed listlessly into the wavering, amber surface of his drink. A sigh came from his mouth. Chamomile wasn't going to be strong enough, not for this disaster." Emil makes tea. One-shot, past AmeIce, minor RomNor and AmeEst.


_**AN- My Tumblr friend tea-and-iceland posted a prompt for a three sentence fic based on a username. I liked what it came up with so I turned it into an entire one-shot. Weird that my first Iceland fic isn't HongIce, though, but this fit better, if not just for the better explanation of the scenario. Just bear in mind, I'm not trying to bash any characters here, I just needed them to fit certain roles in the story I wanted to tell. So, thanks, I own nothing but my ideas, and enjoy! -Twilight Joltik**_

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 _Iced Tea_

Emil closed the door- no, slammed it, used all the frustration he had pent up and let it rip on a glorified plank of wood.

It was impossibly hard to comprehend, but he half knew it would happen eventually. His brother had warned him he was making a mistake and he wasn't sure if he was more upset with himself for not listening or more upset with Lukas for being right.

Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen. Some ice cream, perhaps he could drown his sorrows in chocolate but no, that was just what Alfred would have done. Alfred, that sick creature, the one he could blame and loathe with all the uncertainty and bile in his throat.

Lukas had said time and time again he was famous for burning through guys like matches, but he couldn't believe that, not for him, at least. Emil wasn't Lovino, wasn't Tolys, wasn't Yong Soo; he'd be the one to last. Alfred, with his smile and starry-eyed gaze and boundless capacity for giving a damn about people wouldn't hang him out to dry.

What an idiot he'd been. Put the kettle on to boil, he decided, that would distract him from his shortsightedness. Tea, Al hated tea. All he had in the cupboard was some old bags of chamomile, left over from when Lukas had lived there and dragged his crazy friends over every other night, but that would work.

At the moment, he was supremely grateful to Lukas for agreeing to move in with Vlad and not being around to hear the weak sobs coming from his mouth as his tear-blurred eyes struggled to focus enough to grab a mug out of the cabinet. But ugh, he hated those two so much at that moment in particular, for being happy together, for building a life together, for not being a miserable trainwreck.

Why hadn't he realized Al wouldn't last? Sure, he was entrancingly charismatic, and he said he was cute when he laughed, but what had there been? Their interests, their hobbies, their friends; all vastly different. Perhaps he'd thought opposites would come to attract, but no, it didn't work like that.

He couldn't excuse it, not when his replacement, the next in succession was Eduard, of all people. A family friend, a smart guy who should have known better, someone he would have assumed to have known Alfred was taken. Or did he just not care? Perhaps he too knew better than him that prior commitment meant very little to him.

The kettle hissed and he poured the hot water into that mug that was just as leftover from his big brother's presence as the tea bag dropped in it. Lukas wouldn't feel so lost, he'd tell him to stand tall and be glad it's over if he truly meant so little to Alfred. The words sounded less important coming from him.

Eyeing his phone, he half hoped someone had texted him. An apology from Al, from Ed, from someone. But no new messages, nothing flashing on the screen but a notice some HetaTuber he barely remembered ever subscribing to had uploaded a video and a like on a post he'd made a week ago. Halfway through the password, his fingers lingered. He didn't want to call Lukas, he didn't want to admit defeat. Coddling was hardly what he needed.

Maybe he'd call Berwald later, he was wiser and blunter. But he was at Peter's little league game, he didn't want to interrupt him. And Sadiq, well, he would certainly help but he didn't feel like talking to anyone, really. He respected both of them too much to let himself burst into tears mid-sentence in their presence. Let it sink in, grow numb to his singularity, then he'd reconsider.

Grabbing the mug, splashing a bit out and onto his hand, he sat down at the coffee table, sitting cross-legged. God, he was so tired. Being so upset was exhausting. He let the tea bag form a small pool on the table's surface as he took it out.

Eyes half open, Emil gazed listlessly into the wavering, amber surface of his drink. A sigh came from his mouth. Chamomile wasn't going to be strong enough, not for this disaster.


End file.
